Fridays Minute Murderers....

[mustynutz]

In highschool, everyone has that one cool teacher that you can say everything too. The whole class usually jokes around with this teacher, is allowed to cuss in class, and enjoys being in that class. In my cast, it was my 9th grade teacher-- Mrs. Patterson.

Everybody in class joked around with her and traded insults, although she did have a line that could be crossed-- that line kept moving.

Stupid line.

I was usually the person to cross that line, not because I meant to. I just don't know when to put my foot in my mouth at times.

Mrs. Patterson's husband lost his right leg in a motorcycle accident years earlier, and she was prone to joke about it. Unfortunately, I didn't know the stopping point when arguing with her. Usually when I walk into her class, she'd pick a play fight with me.

"Oh look who it is. It's Justin. I guess they'll let anybody into this school these days."

"I guess they'll let anybody teach here too."

"Ooooh, you got me. I bet all that free-time you have at home alone comes in handy when coming up with good insults for class."

"I bet with all your husband's free time, he enjoys using you as his second leg to get around."

That was the only cheapshot I had, her husband's lack of a leg. If she didn't want me to use it as ammo, she shouldn't have loaded my insulting gun with it by informing me of his handicap. On this day, I had crossed the line and ended up hanging out in the principal's office all day.

Lucky for me, the principal was absent that day (he was having an affair with a married teacher), so I had fun making false announcements. Everyone got suspiscious when I kept calling the hottest girls in the school to the office. I eventually got lazy calling each girl one announcement at a time, so I took a shortcut.

"Yes, this is the principal. I'd like the girl's volleyball team, tennis team, basketball team, and Varsity cheerleading squad to report to my office. You're in trouble. You've been very bad girls. Teehee."

But that got old once I got caught. I think the 'teehee' tipped them off. And the fact that I didn't sound like an elderly black gentlemen who happened to be principal.

After several days of suspension, I was allowed back in class with Mrs. Patterson. Earlier in the morning, it was quite hot out, so I wore a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops to school. As the day wore on, it started to snow and the ground iced over very fast.

I walked into class freezing. Mrs. Patterson saw this opportunity and took advantage of it.

"Well looky here, Mr. Justin doesn't know how to dress for the weather. Ya know, if you had been watching the news last night instead of listening to your hippity hop maybe you wouldn't be freezing."

I wanted to put my foot in my mouth, but she opened up herself to this one. "Your husband loves hippity hop. That's all he does when trying to get around."

The class snickered as I walked to my desk. Mrs. Patterson shook off the comment, adjusted her Cincinatti Bengals bobblehead on her desk, and quietly got to work grading tests. She was the biggest Cincinatti fan, being from Ohio and all.

Then she started in again.

"Justin, I bet you don't get much sex."

"Neither does your husband, I bet he gets tired of trying to please you with that one leg."

Needless to say, I had to finish my test outside in the snow. She actually made me move my desk outside in the snow. The assistant principal walked by and smirked.

"You talked about his leg again, didn't you?"

"You bet your right leg I did."

The next week, Mrs. Patterson walked into class as we all sat down. She adjusted her little Bengals bobble-head doll one more time, then sat her large posterior in a chair. Unfortunately for her, that old chair gave in and one of the legs snapped off. She fell to the ground as the class burst into laughter.

I should've put my foot in my mouth.

Should have.

"Mrs. Patterson, at least now you've got a leg for your husband!"

She stood up, dusted herself off, and sat at her desk.

"Justin, why is it that you always target my husband? He may not have a leg, but he can do anything he wants."

"He can't be a punter for the NFL."

I couldn't have made a worse comment.

"Excuse me Justin? Did you just say my husband couldn't kick for the NFL?"

Stupid me, shutup now.

"Er.. I take that back. He could kick for the Cincinatti Bengals. I'm sure they'd take him."

And my family wonders why I failed her class.

 

[mustynutz]

I don't know about you, but I'm shocked every time I'm minding my own business walking on a train track and a FUCKING TRAIN tries to infringe on my rights to walk on those tracks. I'll then flip them off as they pass me by for disrespecting me.

This woman is suing the the company for failing to put signs up alerting pedestrians that trains travel on the tracks. Apparently "those pretty little wooden thingies" that run for miles do have a specified use. As a kid, she was probably told by her friends to put a penny on the track, then come back the next day and the penny would be squashed flat.

"That damn train was traveling on my magic penny squasher thingy and I don't appreciate that", she said.

She was hit by the train for walking to close to the tracks. She only walked away with a few bruises and a broken finger. Apparently the broken finger dazed her so much that she stumbled off the track and walked straight to a lawyer's firm.

Maybe she was hitch-hiking and needed a ride.

On her way, she traveled the highway. A current lawsuit is pending against the National Transportation Committee for informing to put up signs that cars travel on roads. She's also suing the sidewalk company for making her personal sidewalk space so big and putting yellow lines and reflector lights on it.

She tried to sue common sense, but her lawyer informed her that common sense wasn't something that could be sued. So she sued him for infringing on her suing rights.

I tried to reach the woman for comments by phone, and finally got a hold of her. When I asked her what it was like to be "a fucking cunt", she declined to comment.

Now, I bring up the question-- what if she was walking near the tracks to get purposely hit just to sue the train company? In that case, she's smarter than we all think.

This leads me to believe that everybody that has ever been hit and killed by a train was doing so to get a little bit of pocket change. Of course, they weren't as successful with their lawsuits, being dead and all.

Will this woman actually win? The Pennsylvania idiot actually has a chance.

When I asked her lawyer to make a comment, he said the following--

"Our intention in taking this to court is to prove that the train company failed to realize that my client is a fucking idiot. We will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that my client is a dipshit."

I actually have an exclusive interview with a witness who lives right behind the railroad tracks who will recollect what happened that day.

"Well, this stupid bitch stumbles up my porch as I'm sitting there. She's drunk as hell and asks me to be her friend. I told the ugly drunk bastard to get the hell of my porch. She then tried to high-five me like I was her friend or something. I said 'bitch, I'm not your friend' and she started bitching at me. I sarcastically commented that maybe she should go make friends with that oncoming train."

I paused the interview to take small break. Namely because I was laughing my ass off and shitting my pants.

"So anyway, she says 'maybe I will!'. Little did I know she would actually try to do it. She walked over to the edge of the railroad tracks, yelling out things like 'C'mon train! Be my friend!'. As the train passed her, she tried to high-five it, resulting in a broken finger."

This woman has gained several fans. During her hospital stay, she received hundreds of cards that say:

"I choo choo choose you!"

Lawsuits are pending against the senders at the present time.

 

[mustynutz]

Since the age of 4, when, in preschool, a girl named Jenny asked me to wake her up from naptime by tapping my penis on her forehead "the way daddy does," I think I've become some kind of metaphysically creepy-random-comments-from-girls magnet. Here's a few examples.

7th Grade:
The very first week of school.

Girl: You have a penis, right?
Me: Uhm, yeah. Why?
Girl: So, if you hold it straight out, you can make it look like a exclamation point, right?
Me: Uh...sure...
Girl: And if you kindof curve it, it'll look like a question mark, right?
Me: Theoretically-
Girl: But only I can do a period!
And with that, she yanked up her skirt to show me her blodd-stained panties.

This blew my little 13-year-old mind. It both turned me on and freaked me out at the same time. Later this girl got suspended from school. Aparantly she was so excited to be the first in her class to have a period, she ran into the middle of the boys' dodgeball game, and whipped off her shorts so they could all get a good look. A lot of balls instantly dropped, and not just those of the dodging variety.

9th grade:
My first sexual experience that actually involved nudity. While we're fondling each other, she asks me if I like Diet Coke.

Me: It's allright.
Girl: Well, I LOVE it. How 'bout you go get me a bottle of it?

I go downstairs and grab a 20 ounce bottle from the fridge. When I return, she says it's too cold.

Girl: How 'bout warming it up...by rubbing it on my tits?

So I began to rub her vigorously with the bottle. Soon enough, she asks me to shove it inside of her. She really enjoys it, and so do I because I KNOW that, with this girl, I'm definantly going to get off. That's when it gets crazy.

She rips out the bottle, opens it, and begins filling her vagina with Diet Coke. I swear, she nearly empties the volume into her vagina. I had seriously underestimated this vagina's liquid retention volume.

Girl: YOU LIKE DIET COKE?!?!?!? OH YEAH OH YEAH DRINK IT FROM ME!

I was noticebly freaked me, but I did want to get off, and I didn't want my first load-blow to be into 18.7 fluid ounces of a 0-calorie beverage. I began to go down on her, until she said the exact wrong thing.

Girl: OH YEAH, DRINK IT FROM ME! I'M THE KOOL-AID MAN! OH YEAH! OH YEAH!

I don't know how she did it with 16-year-old voice, but she sounded exactly like the Kool-Aid man from the commercials. I glanced at the wall, half-expecting him to burst through and over me a fruity beverage. I was extremely turned-off. She could tell, too. As she sat up to see what was wrong, she twisted her body in such a way that Diet Coke shot out of her vagina and all over my face, chest, and groin. And it was at that sticky, low-calorie moment that my parents chose to pull into the driveway.

 

[mustynutz]

Friday always comes so unexpected. This week, it brought me to a place that I've never been to before. This Friday brought me to where the trail goes. To the bottom of the rabbit's hole. I found the center of it.

I was in a Harlem crack-house, I knew that. The basement was large and green-and-white-striped. It would have been cold, but the water heater that I was near warmed the room so I could relax. I sat on the ground with my back against the wall and a crack-pipe in my hand.

How did I come to this place? What was happening? With every hit of crack I took, I walked further and further down a crystal hallway towards a monument of amethyst. There before me was the Rock of Ages, the throne of God.

The great rock bellowed, "Who are you and why have you awakened my spirit?"

I had tapped into it. It was the center. It was the vortex that I found in my acid trips. Here, in the basement of a crack-house in Harlem, I was meeting God for the very first time. The drugs were serving as some kind of mental gateway.

"I am Sam," I said. "I have come to ask you what the greatest thrill of the universe is?"

God rumbled, "Look into me and see your reflection. It will take you to who you are."

And as I looked, I saw a sea of red blood. Literally, there was an ocean of blood and I was in it. I was humping a blue demon from behind. The female demon and I fucked in the sea of blood, her wings flapping in delight. I then realized that the demon that I was fucking looked just like my mother. And I began to see that my arm was tied off as I had done some heroin. And there was a joint in my mouth. I had discovered my greatest thrill—being stoned off my ass fucking a demon version of my mother in a sea of blood. That's my nirvana.

And here is what I learned, after meeting God in Harlem:

I treat being a sociopath as a fun thing, and much of the time it really is. I can't tell you the pleasure that I get out of my life and I know that the average jackass on the street won't ever feel half the thrill that I do in any given month. But there's another part to the disease—another part that's not glamorous at all. There's always the knowing, the constantly being cognizant of the fact, that you have no soul.

When I lay under the stars at night, I don't ponder the nature of existence or the possibility of God. I only think how great the sky would look if I had some acid and Pink Floyd to listen to.

When a girl tells me she loves me, I don't feel any joy in my heart. I only feel my dick swell because I know I'm gonna get laid.

When sitting in class, I don't ever think, "Wow. So that's how that works," or "Jeez, that actually happened?" I only daydream about whether or not I think I can actually get away with murdering someone.

Because I'm a sociopath, I feel no remorse or sympathy for anyone. I don't believe in true beauty outside of a good high or a brilliant con. I think Shakespeare is garbage and I think the only goal in any woman's life is to be a good little cock-sucking slut.

And the funny thing is that I am fully aware that I am somehow missing something that all people who are not sociopaths seem to see. I don't get people who dig sunsets. I don't ever wake up in the morning happy to be alive. I don't fucking understand anyone who isn't a psycho like me. All you people are so trusting and so stupid. I don't understand why all of you don't think with your brain more.

But sometimes, usually after I smoke some weed, I wonder what it's like to be a person that actually feels love. What is it like to feel things like passion and forgiveness and fear of God? What is it like to be a normal human being? And I can't help but think, there's got to be something in these emotions that I'll never understand. There has to be some part of "being a good person" that makes people into priests and artists and scientists and teachers instead of criminals and drug-dealers and lawyers and politicians like the rest of us sociopaths.

And I'll never know.

But I will know my ways. I will know what it was like to flip off my boss and throw a donut at his shiny, bald head. I will know what it was like to rape a Russian virgin under a porch. I will know what it was like to take enough drugs to kill a horse and spend a week thinking I was dead. I will know what it was like to have killed each of those kittens and what it felt like to hang them by their necks on that old lady's tree. I will know things that no one else will ever know.

And as I met God in that Harlem crack-house, I realized that the entire thing—my entire sociopath syndrome—was some sort of cosmic a trade-off. It was a blow-job for a sunrise. It was heroin for Jesus. And I now knew that being a sociopath was just as good, if not better, as being an ordinary person. Don't you think?

 

[mustynutz]

With the end of summer approaching, and the need for money getting stronger by the minute, the concept that i needed a "teen summer job" (i.e a low paying job, doing menial tasks and working with fucking dipshits) was finally starting to sink in. My friend Jon who i typically didn't spend much time with by the name of Jon informed me of an opening at his work. The phone conversation went a little like this:





Him: I get tons of hours , but the work is kind of lame.


Me: Where's it at?...


Him: Boss is pretty laid back too i guess, just a bit weird.


Me: Ya, sounds pretty badass. Where are you working?


Him: It's um... Well it's called um... Country Farms


Me: (laughing) you mean the church fruit stand? fuck yourself fatass *click*



Unfortunately for me though, my high hopes of a "Costco" job cheffing up the best pizzas known to man wouldn't quite work out. Eventually the need for a job working somewhere other than "Socks Galore" sent me back to Jon, to get the fruit stand information. Jon explained to me that they didn't really have applications, that i should just come in and try my best to bullshit around with his boss, a fellow named Randy.

For the next few days I would show up around 12:00 in the afternoon to try to get ahold of the elusive Randy. Every time i'd show up I would be greeted by Ada, a 17 year old girl with a 1 year old child and at least 8-9 boyfriends, all filthier than the last, yet none greasier than the father of her sewer rat child. Every time anyone, male or female would make eye contact with Ada or even just speak to her she would grope them from behind, and press her saggy milk filled tits up against their back. They were the most disgusting things to ever come in contact with a human body, these things would soil around 10-15 unsuspecting males a day. There was even a mexican fellow by the name of Roberto Sanchez who owned a chain of taco stands, but got most of his income through the sales of crack cocaine would come in and "court" Ada with gifts of tomatoes and Oreo cookies.

The first time I asked Ada about talking to Randy she told me to "ugh humph just ead out to ee carrievan! and git heem" After asking Ada (who happened to come from the deep deep south of mexico) what in christ's name she meant by caravan, and receiving another incoherent sentence i realized that she must be talking about the camp trailer nestled snugly next to the dumpster in the back. This wasn't a nice camp trailer, In fact it was barely functional and was filled with all sorts of creatures that lived in the dumpster yet would migrate to the "caravan".

As i neared the Camp trailer i came upon a site that would haunt me for the rest of my life, it was a randy... a man covered in sores, wearing black upper thigh length boxer shorts, a cigarette in one hand, and a dull fruit knife in his other hand with which he was trying to hack what remained of a large part of his heel away.

 

[mustynutz]

saw a post somebody else put up about why he hates homeless people, and I thought, "Hey, I hate homeless people too!"

I live in the great city of Chicago, where homeless people pack the streets like hairs pack my ass crack. Most people who live on the streets have mental problems, be it from a war or being bonked on the head as babies or by any other means; it really doesn't matter. These are not the people I hate. The ones I hate are the ones who can't help but maintain their crack fiend status and restrain themselves from fucking walking to shelter, where my government will hand out free food and a roof. As a teenager without a steady income, I probably have no right to bitch, but my parents pay the taxes to make all this possible, so fuck it.

Last June, my friend Dhara was having a birthday party at Comiskey Park (Fuck US Cellular...and the Sox, for that matter). We were supposed to drive from Hooter's (her choice, she rocks) straight to the game, but I got a call from my friend Megan asking to come pick her up before we left. I obey. Dhara and three other people head off to the game before me and Sarah. Sarah is Megan's best friend and my Senior Prom date. (This story immediately precedes one of the craziest series of events in my life, but I will save that story for another time.)

The three of us arrived at Comiskey half an hour before the game's starting time due to the rare emptiness of the Edens expressway coming south from the Northwest suburbs. If you live in Chicago, you know where Hell is located.

We parked on the first base side of the stadium and walked the wrong way to get to our friends behind home plate, where our tickets awaited. On the way, we walked past a black man handing out flyers for cell phone service or some shit, and he followed us. Apparently a young white man wearing an old yellow Nike shirt and a backwards Brewers baseball hat is a target of opportunity for panhandlers when he is immersed in a sea of middle-aged white men in business suits and black men in expensive leather coats. I suppose it didn't hurt that I was walking with two pretty hot girls (Megan is easily one of the top ten hottest girls I have ever talked to—Sarah is marginal at worst.)

Crack Fiend - "Yo, dawg, you's a stud, or what?"

Me – "Thanks...man."

CF – "Yo, hold awn a seckin."

Me – "What for, dogg?"

CF – "I live awn the streets maaaan...can you gimme a few bucks?"

Me – "I really can't, sorry. I barely have enough for a ticket. Sorry man."

You see, I already have a grudge against beggars and panhandlers. My dad used to be Senior Vice President at a big bank in downtown Chicago, and has told me tales of "homeless" men who stand on the corner in shitty clothes and find prey in the single women and young people walking around all day long. They take their "earnings" from their days of "work" and deposit them into some of the biggest accounts within the bank. Some beggars are legit, but others are just predators.

Like the one who stabbed my dad in the neck with an 11-inch blade on his way out of the building because, when asked for a "few dollars," my dad did what he's supposed to do and kept walking straight forward. The dude justified his act by saying my dad was "jingling his keys and whistling" in a police report later on.

He jumped in front of my dad yelling I'm sick of this shit and stuck the knife in just below his right jaw. My dad thought he was punched and proceeded to knock the homeless man out before feeling the handle and pulling the knife out. He walked into a small store and told them to call an ambulance. They didn't immediately do anything and asked why, so my father pulled his hand away from his neck to let the blood squirt out a little bit. They called the ambulance. The homeless man bruised his carotid artery (the fucking artery was BRUISED—he should be dead) and the blade stopped just before reaching his spinal cord. He's a healthy man today with only a little numb spot under his chin, but he shouldn't be around at all.

He was stabbed because a homeless man felt my father owed him fucking money. My father was almost fucking murdered over a few fucking dollars because a fucking homeless man "was sick of this shit."

I believe I'm right to hold a grudge here and, needless to say, I don't hand much money out to those fucking clowns unless I think they truly need it.

But today I was feeling charitable.

CF – "Pleeeease," accompanied by a yellow-toothed smile and tuna breath. I resist the urge to vomit on his corduroy pants.

Me – "Ehh, alright dude. You got me."

I hand Crack Fiend the two one dollar bills I have in my wallet.

I smile and begin to walk away.

I feel a sweaty hand grab my arm and turn me around.

CF – "Wait." He puts his hand on his lower back and bends backwards. Keanu Reeves deserves an Oscar no more than this man. "Yo, dawg, you ever been homeless? What the fuck am I gonna do wit two dollahs?"

I just gave a beggar more money than most people would consider handing over, against my better instincts, and he has the fucking nerve to ask for MORE?

Me – "What? Are you fucking serious?" I grab the money I just gave him out of his hand. "I HAVE a home, and I can find a fucking use for this."


CF – "AW! Naw you dittint! You fucking white ass mothafucka, I NEED THAT!"

Me, embellishing – "FUCK you! People like you are the fucking reason I don't have a dad. My father was killed because some fucking crack addict like you wanted a few fucking dollars and my dad didn't give him any. This isn't your fucking money and I don't owe you shit. You can definitely suck my dick if you want a dollar back, you fucking piece of ghetto trash."

Walking away like somebody better hold his Five-foot-seven, hundred-thirty-pound ass back, he yelled, "I fucking hate rich bitches like you."

Well, I fucking hate you.

 

[mustynutz]

Complete the process of urination and fasten my pants, so the cold air doesn't cut through to my unmentionables. Certainly, there's not much going on down there. With an average penis size and the occasional shaving of my scrotum, the area confined below my waist and above my knees hasn't been getting much action as of late. I'd even settle for a vigorous thigh-and crotch-rubbing, ending in a case of swolen blue testicles as opposed to the lack of action that I've been getting, lately.

But little did I know, there was more action in my pants than I was allowed to believe.

Today, beneath the cotton, poly-rayon blend that is my trousers, a timeless journey was coming to its fruition(sp). Today, My Boxers decided to make the long 4 or 5 inch trek to the center of Ass-Crack.

Despite the warnings of the trio, Twig and Berries, My Boxers decided to brave the elements (heat and the promise of more heat to come) to move towards the epicenter of endarkenment. It would be a perilous journey, in which there may be no return.

With no method of locomotion to call their own, My Boxers waited patiently for the host to walk about the office. It was then that they utilized their own type of symbiotic movement, which happened to be based upon the way that the host walks.

After passing My Grendel-Smack and stopping for lunch, they decided that they should be on their way, as the day would be ending soon. The trip was all uphill from here and it always stays dark in the jungle that is Ass-Crack. Prior to entering the jungle, the pair knew that must obtain some type of light as the darkness is enough to drive any undergarment insane.

Somehow, without any type of navigation the pair landed on Left-Cheek Island, a desolate white prairie. Upon landing on Left-Cheek Island, My Boxers heard faint screams in the distance. The screams were of a familiar variety; in fact, the screams were that of the trio, Twig and Berries. The pair heard the screams and associated them with sounds of discomfort and unpleasantries. My Boxers felt sorrow that they departed as they were not there to support the trio when they were in need.

My Boxers had come so far. They felt that they must complete this journey. They must, for they were tenacious undergarments; they must for they ARE manly undergarments.

So they departed the bland prairies of Left-Cheek Island for the abismal(sp) Ass-Crack. They knew that making their way through the jungle would be difficult without the aid of a light source, but they had a feeling that they would be able to guide themselves by their sense of touch.

They had reached Ass-Crack. It was all that they had thought that it would be. The heat was almost unbearable. Finally, My Boxers realized why they had felt compelled to make this journey. It all began to make sense. My Boxers are actually a closet-thong. They needed to find a place where they would be accepted. Ass-Crack was far away from the trio and hence, far away from ridicule.

I'm switching to boxer-briefs. A pair of boxer-briefs could never be a closet-thong.

 

[mustynutz]

Date: November 9, 2004

Time: 11:15 PM

Setting: Iowa. Rural Iowa. And that's saying something.

Hunger Level: Nearly insatiable.

Places to eat: Minimal. Possible choices include Taco Bell, Wendy's, or a variety of pizza places.

***

"Jesus Christ, I'm fucking hungry. Let's go get something to eat," I said, as two of my friends and I sat around watching Adult Swim.

"Quiet. Inu Yasha's on."

This could be awhile. My friends, though I love them to death, are nerds.

"You guys are fucking nerds."

Silence. The gauntlet had been laid down. I had crossed the Rubicon, and the situation was bound to get nasty.

When one nerd calls another nerd a nerd, it isn't just a case of blatant hypocrisy, it's also the biggest insult in the world. It's like a Cubs fan saying your team sucks. It's like a trailer park resident laughing at a homeless guy. It's like Dr. Phil calling anyone fat. It just shouldn't happen.

"What did you just say?" My friend Joe said as he glared at me with a hatred so deep that it looked as if he could kill me with a single motion. It also made him look like a ferret, so I was trying not to laugh.

"I said I'm fucking hungry. Let's get some food."

"You call us nerds and then expect us to go out to eat with you? Fuck you."

"Oh, come on."

"No. We're watching TV."

"Fine, I'm going to Wendy's. I'll be back later. You guys want anything?"

"Yeah, get me a number 6 with a Mountain Dew. Hold the tomato and Biggie Size it."

"Okay... you want anything Drue?"

"I want a number 1 with a Pepsi. No lettuce, but make sure they put onion on it. Last time I didn't get any onion. Oh, and get ketchup. Lots of ketchup."

"We're right here in your house. You have a ketchup bottle right downstairs."

"Yeah, but I don't feel like going down there to get it."

"Lazy fucker..." I muttered under my breath. "Okay, I'll be back."

Recently, I just bought myself a new car. Nothing too new, nothing too old. Just something nice that will last me through college. Something that gets better than the 12 miles per gallon I was getting with my rustbucket Bronco II. Since I now have the nicest car in the group, I get stuck driving everywhere, but with one rule. No eating in the car. Hell, I don't even eat in the car. The interior is nice, and I want to keep it that way. But when I finally made it through the Wendy's drive thru, the smell of chicken and beef and potato hit my nose, penetrating my willpower and commanding me.

"Eat me. Eeeeeeat me," sang the choir of fries. No. I must resist. I must resist that savory potatoey goodness awaiting me in the confines of the white paper sack.

GAH. I couldn't. I just had to eat something, my stomach was rumbling more than Oprah's foundation when she comes down the stairs. I gave in.

I told myself, "It won't be so bad if you eat a few fries. Just pop 'em right in your mouth, no ketchup. If you don't drop them they won't make a mess."

I reached into the bag and procured a handful of fries, chewing on them methodically. As I drove, I ate more and more of the fries. I hadn't dropped one yet, and my hunger was subsiding a bit. I pulled onto the curving onramp to get onto Highway 30 as I chomped on another handful of fries.

Before I knew it my mouth was filled with an intense blast of salt. My tongue was shrivelling up and my eyes were watering. I had chewed through one of the salt packets that Wendy's so thoughtfully puts into the bags. Who the fuck uses those things anyway? That's like asking high cholesterol with a side order of heart attack. Does anyone really tear those tiny little packets open and thoughtfully displace their NaCl over their fries? I had to reach for my drink to get the taste out of my mouth. As I reached for it, I miscalculated and sent the whole tray of soda careening onto the floor of the passenger seat. Fuckbeans.

I was still going around the onramp, and I reached down to try and grab the drinks before they did too much permanent damage, still holding onto the wheel with my left hand and cautiously guiding the car along its intended path. I took a little too long to act. As I reached for the last cup, I heard a familiar rumble. At first I thought it was a harmless fart from all the exertion, and told myself I would turn the fan on abruptly once everything was in order. Unfortunately, it wasn't my ass. It was the rumble strip of the highway, and I had gone over it.

I glanced up over the right side of the dash to see the wall of the overpass coming closer to me at about 40 mph.

*BRACE FOR IMPACT!!!!*

*IT'S TOO LATE!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAH*

I hit the wall at the same angle Dale Earnhardt did at Daytona. I just kept thinking, "At least he has Waltrip to blame." The windows in front busted out as the car crumpled itself forward like a sardine can. Inside, I was still hunched over. This nice, new car also came equipped with driver and passenger airbags. My head was in between the two seats, and I got a nice shot to the face from the passenger side. My nose started bleeding and my eyes watered up again. Since I was leaning over I got a full-body shot from the driver's side. I felt pain shoot down my left arm and my abdomen.

I sat there covered in glass, hungry as hell, breathing heavily, and pensively bleeding. "Should I use the napkins for wiping up the blood, or should I try and reach my sandwich with my good arm?" I chose the latter, and when a police officer showed up he had quite a laugh at the scene. There I was, blood covering my passenger seat and my shirt, my nose mangled worse than Jewel's teeth, and eating a Spicy Chicken sandwich with no tomato. I didn't care that I'd grabbed the wrong one. Those fuckers could get their own.

After I was cleaned up a little bit and sitting in the back of the ambulance with another spicy chicken sandwich, I realized the real kicker. I had liability insurance on the rustbucket, and the new full-coverage policy w/ $500 deductible wasn't in place yet. The insurance company wasn't going to cover a fucking penny. I'd just paid over $5000 for Wendy's food.

Please don't put salt on your fries, people. It's going to kill you eventually.

Fuck you Mr. Wendy.

 

[mustynutz]

My girlfriend has been in Virginia for two weeks. Two fucking weeks, and I've been a mess frankly. With my girlfriend hundreds of miles away I had nothing to plant my seed into. I've been beating off onto cats, lawn chairs, gas tanks, duct tape, vacuum cleaners, orange marmalade, and buckets of hot water. Nothing has satisfied my sexual appetite.

Then I saw her. She radiated from the screen and beckoned me to call her private line. "Call now so we can get to know each other, one on one". Oh man this chick was smokin! I had to contact her before some other guy fucked it up because he's a loser who calls chicks for sex. See i'm different, I have a girlfriend and calling for sex, therefore I am just horny but still sickeningly cool.

There was some nonsense about charging $4.99 a minute, but I was sure when I laid out my silky smooth voice onto her ears she'd cancel out the charges and just want to masturbate to me talking about politics and anal bondage. I picked up the reciever and dialed into "Late Night Fantasies"

Phone Hooker: Hey baby, what's your name?

Me: Hey! I'm uh, uh....David Spade.

PH: You sound different this time David...

Me: He actually calls this shit? Uh, I mean, I've got tuberculosis. So, yeah I'm dying.

PH: Aw baby! I'm gonna have to take special care of you tonight.

Me: Yes! Take off your clothes and burn them you whore!

PH: Easy there big guy. Don't you want to take things slow at first?

Me: I'm about to climax here and you're just jabbering blah blah nonsense!

PH: I'm slowly removing your jacket, breathing all over you while I rub my legs up against your member...

Me: Hold up a second...

PH: What's wrong baby?

Me: You don't do any sound effects? What's it sound like when you rub against me? Hello?

PH: You want to hear the sound, that my legs would make...rubbing...

Me: This is my time! Not yours! If I want you to rip out your eyeballs and stick them in your uterus then that is exactly what you will do!

PH: Ok then...swoosh....swoosh.....svish.....

Me: Am I at a fucking basketball game? Swoosh swoosh? Let's skip that and get to the good stuff. I need to hear you make the mating call of whales.

PH: I, I don't even know what that sounds like!

Me: And you call yourself a phone hooker? Maybe I should try "Late Night Erotica" instead...

PH: Alright I'll do it! ....

Me: Well?

PH: Mooooreeeeeyooooouuuuuu......Reeeeyooorrroooooohhhh....

Me: *sniffs* beautiful.

PH: Thank you.

Me: You're a whore. God I'm aching super bad!

PH:Ok well.....I'm going up and down! Up and down! Oh it feels so good!

Me: Quit bungee jumping and cater to my penis!

PH: Oh baby! You're so big! Oh, you're SO big!

Let's stop for a second. I've had weight problems since the tender age of 9, and managed to keep myself at a normal, healthy weight for 3-4 years. Now I know the phone hooker might not have meant to call me fat, but hey, she slipped and did it, I had to rip her apart emotionally.

Me: You bitch! I have watched my weight for years and you decide to call me fat now?

PH: But I was talking about...David you KNOW you're not fat!

Me: Hold it bitch! Now I can't help genetics and all, but at least I'm trying to make something of myself, I'm not whoring myself out for free over the phone to random guys!

PH: It's $4.99 a minute honey.

Me:....

PH: Listen here sonny. I'm 37 with three kids at home bitching to me all the time about "what's for dinner mommy?" or "It's career day at work! What are you gonna tell them you do this time mom?". I deal with shit everyday that would fucking bury you, so if you're done I'd like to hang up now and pleasure a man who ACTUALLY appreciates what I'm doing!

Me: Oh! Oh God! Yes!

It took her close to 15 minutes to realize that I have a fetish for women who become enraged and yell at me. I slept like a baby and even forgot to call my women for the 5th day in a row.

So fellas, don't bother with these sex lines my brothers. It takes them forever to figure out how to get your jollies off. That and farm animals can get the job done twice as fast.

 

[DTP]

Man this is shit-readin material! I just printed them out and will be back in about 15 min!

 

[mustynutz]

Halloween.

1999.

Trick or Treat, bitches.

The four of us, my girl and I, and my best friend and his girl decided to hit up Salem, Massachusetts for Halloween for lack of something better to do. Rumor had it that it was just like Mardi Gras, sans the alcohol poisoning, the bared breasts, and the overwhelming debauchery that went on.

I must admit, it was alot of fun. Hundreds upon thousands (well, hundreds anyway) of people lining the streets in full costume, and people WERE getting drunk and just having a good time. My girlfriend, being the lazy broad that she was, just painted some fucking cat whiskers on her face and wore a black leotard. My friend got decked out in some sort of queer medieval outfit, complete with genuine broad sword. If it wasn't for the sword, he would have looked like a total fag with his puffy pants. His saving grace was that he had bought a very tight serving wench outfit for his girl, and her tits managed to pop out several times during the weekend.

He had also bought me a giant broad sword, a long black hooded cape, and drew up an amazing design on my face in black and red paint. I suppose I'm a hypocritical asshole, because I was just as lazy as my girl. I was decked out in all black too.

But I digress. We shopped, we went to haunted houses, it was as fun as a queer night in Salem could get. We stopped into a pizzeria to get something to eat,ordered and sat down at a table with four seats. When the pizza was ready, my friend got up to get it, and the next thing I knew, someone had taken his seat.

A giant green M&M. This Chinese girl had just plopped into my friends seat, without asking anyone whether it was ok. Now, this was a separate table, with bench seats on either side, so it wasn't as if she was just sitting near us. She was sitting WITH us. I wasn't quite sure what she was thinking.


I stared at her for a moment in disbelief, not trying to be my usual, extremely rude self, as I wasn't quite sure about the rules of engagement in a foreign land when it came to candy people.

"Excuse me Miss, my friend is sitting there."

"Ok" she said to me, turning around and looking out the window.

"Umm, hello, can't you sit at that table right behind us?" I said incredulously.

"I wait for friend" She said, in her broken English.

Unbelievable.

This is when my girl's mouth opened. When she was pissed off, you didn't want to be within three miles of the blast zone. The plague of verbal locusts that spewed forth from her mouth from time to time was enough to scatter the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to the winds.

Did I mention she was a loudmouth Italian girl from NY?

Yeah.

"Listen, you fucking dirty gook bitch, get the fuck up out of here, before I break your fucking skull open. Someone's sitting there."

Silence. The Asian M&M had just ignored her. I was the only one that had ever gotten away with that. I braced myself for the impact. I wasn't getting involved. I had never fought with candy before. Especially Asian candy.

"Did you fucking hear me? I said get the fuck up, you stupid bitch"

Again, our newly acquired friend just sat there, looking out the window, ignoring us. I couldn't understand what was going through her head. I wanted to tell her, to warn her, to plead with her to get up before things got out of hand, but I just sat there. I think I was actually enjoying this.

Well, enough was enough. My girl picked up the salt shaker from the table, cocked back, and caught the girl square in the back of the head. I winced.

"AYAAAAAAAAAAA WHY YOU DO THAT" the chinese girl screamed, finally showing some sort of acknowledgement, holding the back of her head.

"Because you dont listen, and you need to get the fuck on up out of here, before you catch the pepper too."

My girl had gotten up, my friend's girl had gotten up, the M&M had gotten up, and my friend was standing there, tray of pizza in hand, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. I figured I would get up too. No sense in sitting down. This was going to get worse before it got any better.

"WHA GOING ON" I heard from behind me in a thick Asian accent.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in the silver moonlight, was a very tall, very menacing figure.

It was a Skittle. A fucking Red Skittle. Apparently, her boyfriend was also dressed for the occasion.

The girl started yelling at her boyfriend in Chinese, waving her arms about and pointing at us. His face began to turn a shade of red almost as deep as his costume, and he began to walk towards us, his fists clenched. He was big as hell, and he wanted to kill us.

It was go time.

My friend tossed the tray of piping hot pizza at him, and the chinese guy ducked down in a defensive stance, knocking the tray away in mid air, and uttering a loud "KEEEEEAAAAAY" or some shit. I don't know, goddamm Asians are good at karate and math.


The Asian girl ran behind him, and our two girlfriends hid behind us. We just stood there, staring at each other for a moment, wondering what to do next.

I was fighting with an Asian Skittle. I assumed that he could kick my ass, as ridiculous as he looked, seeing as how he knocked the tray out of the air without flinching. He came towards my friend and I, ready to lay some Shaolin shitkicking on our asses, and I did the only thing I could think of.

I drew my 4 foot long broad sword from its sheath from under my cape and brandished it at him......menacingly.

My friend followed suit.

A more ridiculous scene, I could not imagine.

It was a standoff. Some sort of fucked up Halloween standoff.

I wasn't planning on actually stabbing anyone, and neither was my friend, but we had big sharp swords, and goddammit, I was going to use it at least once that weekend.

I moved towards the Skittle, and he backed away, slowly, out the door, a frightened but furious look in his eye. He hadn't expected the crazy white boys to be slinging metal.

Yeah, that's right , Taste the Rainbow, bitch.

He left, muttering under his breath, and we put our weapons away, breathing a sigh of relief.

No blood was to be shed that day.

I turned around, looked at my friends, and just walked out the door. The pizzeria owner was on the phone, most assuredly calling the police, and I didn't feel like getting arrested in fucking Salem.

"What were you arrested for?"

"Well, see this Skittle attacked me, so I drew my sword and defended myself."

Yeah......


The rest of the weekend was spent cautiously looking over my shoulder, expecting a very large, very angry Skittle flying through the air, aiming a crippling Dragon Kick right at me.

My hand was on my sword hilt the entire weekend.

 

[mustynutz]

http://www.lostfrog.org/

 

[mustynutz]

I know, I know. It's supposed to be "physically challenged", right? Where I come from, to be physically challenged is to be surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. If you cannot walk, you are a cripple.

With that in mind, I have no reservations about labeling my girlfriend as such. It seems that the demands of birthing an alien baby _______________have rendered her lower appendages completely useless. It's a little strange, because they were working fine when we left the hospital, but completely lost any ability to function while she was watching The Swan later that evening.

So, back to the hospital we went. Medical professionals could not discover the direct cause of her troubles, except to inform us that indeed, her legs were not working. Prognosis: wheelchair.

Now the title of this post might mislead you into thinking I embraced her condition. Trust me, it's been a long, hard road. Who wants to waste time pushing some wheelchair around? Not me, that's who.

I was already preparing the usual excuses for bailing out on the relationship. Nothing fancy, as I find the classics are classics for a reason. "A dog ate my penis" or "I'm going to be a roadie for the Skorpions" would suffice.

But while rehearsing my speech in the mirror, my mind unraveled a key revelation. That revelation being "this is a pretty nice fucking mirror". It caused me to stop for a second and look around the room. Come to think of it, the plasma screen TV wasn't too shabby either. Or the furniture. Or essentially everything in her apartment. Or her car, which she couldn't drive anyway, since her legs don't work.

"Son of a bitch," I said to myself. "If I walk out on her now, I'll be walking around on all of this wonderful stuff. These are a few of my favorite things."

After many hours of consideration, I decided to stick with it. If I'm about anything, it's perseverance. Unfortunately dealing with her handicap was even worse than I could have ever imagined. I'm quite a lazy fellow, and I didn't appreciate the fact that taking her anywhere amounted to some form of exercise. At sporting events and concerts, I had to let her sit on my shoulders so she could see. And the sex, don't even get me started on that. Her long, lifeless legs constantly got in my way. I had to take an Origami class just to learn how to fold them properly.

I was at my wits end. So, I decided to turn to the one person I knew who could help. Jesus. I got down on my knees and prayed for guidance, searching for some way to embrace her possessions without having to deal with an inconvenient handicap.

Soon, my prayers were answered. The Lord worked his miracle through a telephone call from my girlfriend. It was a call in which she said those two words, those two wonderful words that have since changed my life forever.

Double amputation.

Extensive blood clotting in both legs meant that they needed to go, and I was the first at the dock to see them off. After surgery and a few short weeks of recovery, she was as good as new and better than ever.

So what is so great about having no legs, you wonder? For starters, how about everything? The sex became infinitely more satisfying and unique, as I've mastered the art of spinning her from side to side as if I was a DJ. I can alternate between the wheelchair and stuffing her into a backpack. In case of emergencies, she becomes a handy weapon. I can plant my stash in her pocket, and ditch her out the window in case the cops start following me. There are hundreds of advantages lying right at my fingertips.

But perhaps the greatest thing about it is the freak factor. When you're carrying around someone like that, people who walk or drive past cannot help but be drawn to you. I feel like we're the king and queen of the Disturbance Ball.

Although this is usually a positive, it developed into somewhat of a problem when citizens did it at restaurants. It turns out that I hate it when people watch me eat.

So I devised a simple solution. I sawed the legs off of my niece's life-size Pinocchio doll. Then I superglued Velcro strips to the top of each one, and the corresponding strips to the inside portion of each of her thighs, right above the stump. Results were better than I could have possibly expected. It appeared as if she had the body of an adult, with the legs of a child. She looked like some type of mutant. I felt like a member of the X-men. Shave my head and I would be Professor X. Throw a clock around her and I would be Professor Griff.

This has served me well, for the most part, with the exception of one unfortunate encounter at a restaurant recently. We were trying to enjoy a quiet dinner when our table was approached by some pseudo-suave white guy with emo glasses. I had her upper legs covered with a blanket, so only her wooden shoes were exposed.

"Hi, I'm Todd." He interrupted our conversation. "And you are?"

"Alicia."

I volunteered my name even though he never asked.

"My name is Tinactin. Did you need anything?"

"Well, I was just wondering why this lovely lady was having dinner with you, when she could be at a better table with me. I've got a lovely view, although all I need to see is you."

"Tee-hee", she giggled.

"Look, we're trying to eat. You're ruining the taste of my Fettuccini. I am going to have to kindly ask you to step aside."

"I wasn't talking to you. You can only speak when I allow you."

"Ok, that's the final straw. I tried to be nice, but you forced my hand. The kid legs are coming off."

RIPPPPPPPPP.

The sound of Velcro tearing pierced the air and silenced the entire room.

Todd looked down at Alicia, first with confusion, then with what appeared to be a vague sense of terror.

"Wha...what is that? That thing?"

I quietly resumed eating my pasta. I wanted to let him stew for a moment in the pot of his own design. After a few seconds of seeing him in that catatonic state, I calmly responded.

"What do you mean? Oh, you mean those stumps? Those are just the fractured remains of what were formerly a normal pair of legs. Nothing to be worried about."

I could not decipher whether Todd's response was "good" or "God", for the sound of vomit gurgling into his mouth obscured all speech. He turned away from us and released it all over the floor.

Needless to say the waiters were pretty upset. On the bright side, we didn't have to pay for our meal. So once again her handicap became my advantage. Things are going well for us now, except I accidentally broke her wheelchair. I can't afford to buy her a new one, so she is going to have to settle for the cheapest viable alternative.

 

[MeloTrauma]

Hey Musty, are all these always your own? If so where can I get a job like yours that allows me to NOT WORK.

 

[DTP]

That Kool-Aid was funny as fuck. For some reason, I can picture someone doin that.

 

[mustynutz]

Melo, i work at the US Secret Service...tells you how good of a job were doing protecting the president....lol

 

[hobgoblin]

That fist story had me dying.

 

[VSTXDJ]

That Kool-Aid was funny as fuck. For some reason, I can picture someone doin that.

that oen had me on my fuckin ass hahahhahahahahhahaa it reminds me of family gu when they are in vourt and da kool aid man just bursts in

 

[mustynutz]

lol